Authors: Jan Karon

These High, Green Hills (13 page)

BOOK: These High, Green Hills

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“Hello, Rodney!”

He hadn’t had a call from the Mitford police chief in quite a while, not since they’d done all that business together before his trip to Ireland.

During the dognapping of Barnabas that had led to the drug bust, and the drama of the jewel thief who had lived in the church attic and turned himself in during a Sunday service, he’d seen Rodney Underwood nearly every day for a couple of months.

“Father, I need to talk to you about somethin‘. We could meet at the Grill—or how about me comin’ by your office?” Rodney sounded worried.

“Why don’t I come by your office? I haven’t been there in a while. Got anybody I can visit, while I’m at it?”

“Not a soul. I released a DUI this mornin‘. We’ve done cleaned th’ cell and mopped th‘ floor.” Rodney was the only police chief he’d ever heard of who kept house like a barracks sergeant and provided back issues of
Southern Living
for inmates.

At the station, Rodney met him at the door. “Looks like marriage is treatin‘ you right.”

“It is, thank you.”

“How’s Dooley? I been meanin‘ to ask.”

“Fine. Doing great.”

“Not gettin‘ the big head, is he?”

If there was anything the village didn’t want Dooley to get, it was the big head. “Let that be the least of your concerns.”

Rodney took him into his office and closed the door. “It’s Miss Sadie,” he said, hitching up his gun belt.

He distinctly felt his heart skip a beat. “What happened?”

Rodney sat on the corner of his desk and invited the rector to take a chair. “She’s done run that Plymouth up on the sidewalk one time too many.

“You know I’ve closed my eyes and looked the other way ever since I stepped into this job—but only where Miss Sadie’s concerned. She’s th‘ only one I’d look th’ other way for.”

The rector nodded. If there was ever an honest man, it was Rodney Underwood.

“Drivin‘ up on th’ sidewalk ain’t goin‘ to hack it from here out. This mornin’, she hauled up in front of The Local so close you’d bust out the store window if you opened the passenger door. I mean, we got new people movin‘ in here, it’s not just homefolks anymore. These are modern times. Why, there’s somebody from Los Angelees, California, livin’ on Grassy Creek Road.”

“I’ll be darned.”

“The way I figure it, that car rolled off the line when Eisenhower was in office. If it hit a Toyota, it’d send it all the way to Wesley—air express. Another thing. She hugs th‘ yellow line like it was laid out for her to personally run on. People scatter like chickens when they see her comin’ in that Sherman tank.”

The police chief looked closely at the rector, to be sure he was getting the point. Clearly, he wasn’t. “What I’m sayin‘ is, she’s got to do better or we got to get her off th’ street.”

“Aha.” He didn’t want to hear this, no indeed, he liked things to go along smoothly, business as usual. Sadie Baxter had been driving up on the sidewalk for years. What was the big deal?

“My men have spoke to her twice, but it ain’t sinkin‘ in. Next time, we’re givin’ her a citation. And if she don’t do better then, I’m turnin‘ her in to th’ MVB for reevaluation.”

“Can
you
discuss it with her?” asked the rector, knowing the answer already.

“That’s what I’d like you to do, Father.”

“I hate to meddle,” he said, knowing full well that he would have to do it, anyway. Actually, someone once told him that meddling was his job. Godly meddling, they’d called it, though it hardly ever felt godly to him.

“I don’t call it meddlin‘ when you might be savin’ somebody’s life, not to mention hers. How she even sees over the dashboard is more than I can figure, low as she is.”

“Ah, well,” he said weakly. He had rather be horsewhipped than tell Sadie Baxter she’d have to park at the curb like everybody else and stick to her own lane. He had seen the stern way she rapped the floor with her cane before Louella’s operation. To tell the truth, he might be a little afraid of Sadie Baxter.

Maybe Cynthia would do this uncomfortable deed, and let him out of it altogether.

He had shaved and showered, and was about to walk into the bedroom when he realized his wife would be there.

He shook his head as if to return some sense to it. His
wife
. He more than relished the company of his wife; there were times he could hardly wait to see her. But when would his heart stop this foolish pounding on nearly every encounter? When would the comfort of merely being two old shoes kick in?

She was sitting up in bed in something blue, with Barnabas on the floor beside her. “I gave Evie a little break today.”

“You’re wonderful.”

“Never! What do you think Miss Pattie and I did?”

“I can’t even begin—”

“We danced.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“The rumba? The fox-trot?”

“Free-form.”

“You had ... music?”

“She turned on the radio. It was something about calling the wind Mariah.”

“Aha.”

“When Evie came home and saw her little mother dancing, she cried.”

“Evie always cries.”

He loved the open expectancy that so often lit her face. He sat on the bed next to her. “It all sounds amusing, but I know it isn’t, really. You’re brave and good to let Miss Pattie express something of her spirit.”

“I’m not good, dearest, and I’m certainly not brave. I really don’t like going over there at all. It’s hard. But when I think how hard it is for Evie ... ”

He took her hand, grateful.

“There’s something terribly winsome and sweet about Miss Pattie,” Cynthia said. “She looks rather like the Pillsbury Dough Boy in a dress, don’t you think?”

“Exactly!” He wouldn’t talk to her about Miss Sadie tonight.

“I thought I might take her to ride one day. Rodney Underwood used to take her to ride in his squad car, but he’s too busy now. Do you think a Mazda would do just as well?”

Yes, indeed, he thought, angels were very real. Miss Pattie and Evie Adams had been given one of their own, in the flesh. As had he.

“Ah, Father!” It was Hope Justice, appearing out of the fog as the rector jogged his final lap up Main Street.

He stopped, panting. He always liked seeing her face. And since she worked the night shift and slept most of the day, he didn’t see it often.

“I wanted to thank you and the missus for what you did for our Benjamin and all. It was mighty big of you in every way. We just appreciate it, Father.” He saw tears welling up in Hope’s brown eyes.

“Why, think nothing of it!”

“It helped more than you know,” said Hope, pulling out a handkerchief.

Jogging away in the damp December cold, he couldn’t help but wonder what he had done for Hope Justice. He didn’t want to seem dense, but the last time he could remember doing anything was years ago, when her husband was laid off from the glove factory.

Puny Bradshaw Guthrie was getting back to her old self. In fact, he’d never seen her look better.

“Stop starin‘ at my belly!” she said, giggling. “I can jis’ feel you starin’ down there to see what’s what. I prob‘ly won’t even show for another month or two!”

He felt that uncontrollable grin spreading across his face. His Puny, with the red hair and freckles and the soul of a saint.... “And what does your mother-in-law, the mayor, think?”

“She’s excited as anything. This’ll be her eighth great-gran.”

“And twenty-five grans, I believe?”

“Twenty-six, countin‘ her youngest girl’s little boy that popped out last week.”

“I got you something and don’t sass me for doing it.” He went to the pantry and took out the mop.

“It’s a squeegee with a flexible handle, and look here, you don’t ever have to bend over again, just work this lever.... ”

She eyed the demonstration with suspicion.

“And another thing,” he said. “I want you to eat a good lunch and stop pecking around here like a bird.”

She laughed and saluted him. “Yes, sir!”

He sighed. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you when—”

“You don’t have to do without me! I’ll bring it to work with me!”

“You ... you will?”

“I sure will! And I won’t mind a bit if you play with it!”

“You won’t?”

“That little train you set up at Christmas, you could run that an‘ all. That would be entertainin’.”

There was a thought, he mused, scratching his head.

Out of sight, out of mind.

He had forgotten the three boxes shifting around in his car trunk, until the computer company called to say they’d be heading up the mountain “real soon.”

While he had them on the line, he said, maybe they could tell him what to expect. No problem, said the caller. They would come and install the computer, the monitor, the printer, and the bookkeeping system, and give a two-hour introduction. Then they’d come back every week or so for a couple of hours until the church office could handle it on their own.

How long, he wondered, would it take for his office to ... handle it? About a year, no problem, piece of cake, said the caller. Father Tim felt his stomach wrench. As for scheduling, they’d install it the week after Christmas, if that was all right with him.

All right? He couldn’t thank them enough for their inexcusable, unprofessional delay in getting the blasted job done.

When she heard the news, it seemed to him that Emma was her old self again. Not that this was any improvement.

“Lord!” she said. “What I wouldn’t give for a chocolate Little Debbie, to celebrate!”

Emma had given up Little Debbies for Lent three years ago, a sacrifice he deeply appreciated. Being in the same room with a Little Debbie of any variety was more temptation than he could handle.

Emma eyed him. “She’s watching your diet, I suppose?”

“Somebody has to.”

There was a prickly silence.

“I hear the ECW wanted her to be president.”

BOOK: These High, Green Hills

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